


The Great Escape

by Scruggzi



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Illness, Jack plays nursemaid, Whumptober, but without much whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 16:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16223036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi
Summary: Phryne's convalescing from a bad bout of influenza and after weeks in bed her boudoir is starting to feel like a very hostile environment...





	The Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheInspectorsSecretStash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInspectorsSecretStash/gifts).



> This started out as a birthday fic for TheInspectorsSecretStash (happy belated birthday lovely!) and then kind of spiraled into a whumptober fic for the prompt 'hostile environment' - sort of, if you squint.

For all of her spectacular and manifold talents, Phryne Fisher was a truly appalling patient. She had made it through the worst portion of the influenza thanks to the unassailable stubbornness with which she was blessed, and Mac had declared her officially out of any danger and no longer contagious. The carbolic sheets had been taken down and the clawing, tar-like scent had been replaced by the more hospitable fragrance of the flowers Jack had brought her, cut fresh from his own garden.

Convalescence had left her tired, irritable, bored, and constantly attempting to find ways to circumvent doctor’s orders and do something entertaining, illegal, and dangerous. It had been months, _months,_ since she had scaled a good building, and even longer since she’d been involved in proper fight to the death – the kind where she could win with a well-placed blow to the head, then celebrate with whisky and dancing. The long, slow battle of attrition against a pernicious invader within her own body was not her style at all. Without the adrenaline of a fair fight she had been frightened for herself and she did not care for it.

Still, the influenza virus had discovered that the body of Phryne Fisher was a deeply hostile environment in which to set up home, and she had eventually sent it on its way. She still felt weak, and her chest and limbs ached so badly that Mac had prescribed a daily dose of laudanum, something Phryne was rather enjoying. She had taken today’s dose with her breakfast and it seemed to be doing its job. She felt wonderful, in fact, better than she had in weeks; all she needed was a bit of excitement and she would be right as rain. If only her well-meaning friends were not so keen on keeping her in bed. The lower floor was guarded by Dot, and even Mr Butler appeared to be taking his orders from Doctor MacMillan these days, the traitor. No, she would need to plot her escape carefully.

***

Jack walked along the Esplanade, holding a fresh bunch of flowers. It had become a ritual for him; each bouquet set by Phryne’s bedside made her smile, she loved his garden and had often told him so. She also said she liked to think of him out there, hair tousled, working up a sweat, his hands deep in the honest earth. Teasing him with other ways he might work up a sweat once she was well again was really one of the few highlights of her confinement, so he only complained a little. Secretly, he rather enjoyed it, if she was taking delight in tormenting him, it meant she was getting back to her old self again. Jack had begun to count the days of her recovery by the time it took the cut blooms to wither in their oriental vase, as if they were giving their lives one by one, sacrificial soldiers bringing her back to life.

It had been terrifying to see her so small, so helpless against the assault of pathogens she could not see or fight. Even more terrifying to see her so afraid, crying out for him, for Janie, even her mother, reaching into the dark for ghosts who were not there as he mopped her brow and held her hand, willing her fever to break. He had ignored Mac’s instruction to stay away due to the infection risk. Realising it was no use labouring the point, Mac had told him to keep his hands sterilised and his mouth covered as much as possible. He obeyed the first instruction. The latter he ignored in order to read aloud, his deep, soothing voice reaching through the tempest of her delirium, a lighthouse on a stormy sea.

Whether it had helped, or whether it was Phryne’s own indomitable nature that had seen her through, the worst of the fever was over within a week, along with the delirium and hallucinations. The morning when she woke and knew once again who he was might have been the greatest relief of his life. Whilst that danger had passed, the pain, weakness and the hacking cough that had gone down to her chest persisted for long weeks afterwards, and although she was steadily recovering she was still a long way from the bright, vital person she used to be.

She was also spectacularly bored, and he knew Dot in particular had been running herself ragged trying to keep Phryne in bed and recovering, all of them fearing a relapse that could prolong her symptoms.

He glanced up towards her window as he approached the house, then stopped in his tracks, ran his fingers over his eyebrows and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, unable to suppress his smile.

Miss Fisher was dressed in a luxurious evening gown and climbing down a drainpipe on the side of her own house. Of course she was. Clearly, things were beginning to get back to normal.

***

It had taken Phryne longer than she expected to dress; she had lost weight during her illness, and the trousers she initially selected from her wardrobe simply fell off when she tried to fasten them. She found an evening gown she'd set aside for Jane, who had always been fond of it. It had been rather too snug on her before, but now it fit her pretty well – it might be entirely wrong for the time of day, but at least there was no danger of it falling off.

Scaling a drainpipe in a dress was less than ideal, but she had managed it in more elaborate outfits when the need had arisen. The stockings were a challenge too; her usually dextrous fingers felt oddly clumsy as she fastened her garters, but she managed eventually. Her head was swimming a little with a combination of effort and opiates, and her limbs felt weak through lack of use. She took a seat on the bed to recover for a moment – clearly all this bedrest was doing her no good at all.

The window of her bedroom led out onto the terrace, and in theory she could just walk round and head down the back staircase. Dot, however, was likely in the kitchen and had become surprisingly adept at sending Phryne back to bed. Mr Butler was also likely to be on the prowl, making it less than ideal as an escape route, but Phryne was nothing if not resourceful and she had a plan.

She slipped out of the window; the air was mild but colder than her bedroom and the salt tang from the bay was harsh as it hit her lungs. Despite the lingering dizziness she felt exhilarated; she was up, she was out of the stuffy, oppressive space her bedroom had become and not a minute too soon. As soon as she was back from…well, wherever she was going, she hadn’t planned that far ahead, she was going to start redecorating.

Glancing around, she located her alternative escape route – the drainpipe which ran down the side of the house, it even had convenient brackets to provide hand and foot holds, perfect. It seemed stable enough, although the elegant purple Mary Janes she had donned as the most obvious match for her gown were – now she thought about it – not the best suited for climbing. Still, she had scaled much more difficult buildings in her time, and what kind of lady couldn’t climb down the side of her own house? This should be easy.

She realised that this had been a bad idea as soon as she swung herself over the edge. Her arms and legs, once so strong, had atrophied during her illness and barely seemed to want to hold her up, and the dizziness she had been pointedly ignoring on the solid ground of her bedroom floor increased exponentially the more she exerted herself. The problem was, whilst going down seemed like a difficult and dangerous prospect, going up appeared completely impossible. Despite firm instructions from her brain, her arms just didn’t seem able to pull her up. Well, that left only one option. Down it was.

She made it about halfway before the dizziness started to blur her vision. She clung to the brackets of the drain pipe, breathing slowly, trying to regain focus, but her mind and body seemed caught in a nauseous fog which rose up to engulf her completely and she lost her grip on the drainpipe. Her vision went black as she lost consciousness and dropped, dead to the world, towards the garden below.

***

Phryne awoke to find herself held in strong arms, surrounded by a familiar scent; she snuggled more comfortably into Jack’s neck to breathe him in. She seemed to be outside, the air was a little too cold and the warmth of his body was comforting. What had she been doing before she fell asleep? Her head was still muzzy, and she couldn’t quite remember.

“Good to see you up and about, Miss Fisher, were you planning on going dancing this evening?”

 “Not without you Jack, are you here to escort me to the Green Mill?”

“I’ll escort you back to bed and no-where else. You’re still not well Phryne, you need rest.”

“Mmmm, only if you’re planning to join me.”

She could feel him smile at that, although he said nothing, just began the slow careful walk back towards her boudoir. She pressed her lips into the skin of his neck, realising that she had left off her customary red lipstick, her powder, not even a little kohl around her eyes. Something of a mercy that she’d been caught really, next time she would be much better prepared. Her eyelids began to droop again as Jack climbed the stairs, waving off Dot’s panicked cry as she realised who he was carrying. Perhaps a little nap first, Phryne thought, it was too early for dancing anyway.

By the time Jack had laid her back in her warm, soft bed her breathing had evened out and she was sleeping peacefully. He shook his head; this woman really would be the death of him. It had been a fraction of a second between spotting her on that drainpipe and realising she was in trouble. He had vaulted the wall and sprinted to catch her, trailing flowers from the bouquet he had brought behind him. Fading petals still clung to his shoes and overcoat, falling to the floor as he stripped down to his undershirt and climbed in to the bed beside Phryne.

It had been too long since he had been able to hold her like this, close enough to feel the reassuring beat of her heart against his chest drumming out a rhythm.

_I-am. Still-here._

_I-am. Still-here._

_We-are. Still-here._

And together, they slept. 


End file.
